


Fog and Sky

by HotGoatCheese



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Apocalypse, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Kissing, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, post s4 AU, transactional sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22597840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotGoatCheese/pseuds/HotGoatCheese
Summary: Martin never expected to see Peter again. Of course, The End was brought through with the rest of the powers so it shouldn't be that much of a surprise. The real surprise is what Peter wants from him this time.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Simon Fairchild
Comments: 17
Kudos: 21
Collections: The Magnus Archives Rare Pairs 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anysin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anysin/gifts).



There was definitely something wrong with the water. Steam puffed up and billowed where it hit the tub floor from the showerhead, thick and white and warm. Martin felt a chill and stepped in anyway. Why wouldn't something be wrong? Maybe this was the home of The Archivist, but he wasn't here right now. The Eye's protection meant nothing, not that it had ever been worth much.

The water was warm, not too hot no mater how high Martin turned the dial. The steam surrounded him, so thick he couldn't even see the soap Jon kept in the caddy right in front of his nose. For the first time since the world ended, the knots beneath his shoulderblades started the loosen. He couldn't feel the no longer proverbial eye in the sky anymore. Despite the running water and rolling fog everything felt still. A sort of comfortable that Martin knew shouldn't be comfortable. Something familiar.

Thoughts of the Lonely brought a strange grief that seemed to turn and grip his heart like a pinching cradle. He wondered if it was't Peter's last twisted gift to him. Mourning a man that had spent nearly a year trying to make him into a monster. Succeeding, by some schools of thought. The fact that there was a kind of peace in it was a too-sharp truth, and Martin made the decision to grope blindly for Jon's soap caddy. 

He found it easy, and cleaned himself. Once the water was off and Martin was out of the tub, reaching for a towel, he saw it. Written in the gathered condencation on the mirror with fingers thicker than Jons and thinner than his own were two words in tall letters. 

**London Eye**

Well that was vague, and ominous, and probably a really bad idea to do any sort of follow-up on. Martin wiped the mirror clean before drying himself ad securing the towel around his waist to wander out to the main room. Jon's sofa was still made up as a bed. Neatly too, as if he'd made it up again after sleeping in it. Martin stood over the end table and looked down at the still untouched bit of index card he'd read a million times already. 

_Working on undoing Archive Ritual. Will Return.  
Jon_

In some ways, the signature meant the world to him. Jon using his name was a good sign. A Sign he was reclaiming his identity. In others, the whole thing was some kind of bull. He had Jon had been through hell together on the way back from Scotland. Leaving him behind now was an insult at best. 

...and a clue that the promise to return was probably a lie at worst. 

Jons flat didn't provide much in the way of exploration or entertainment. Martin wandered the kitchen and checked the stock. Plenty of dry staples, though he hoped the eyes the potatoes had grown were as much just the normal sort for potatoes as they appeared. The refrigerator was nearly empty. Jon had gone into a cleaning spree so intensive Martin doubted he'd have been able to join him in it even if he hadn't just had his senses utterly scrambled by an encounter with The Spiral. He'd been muttering about The Corruption the whole time, must have thrown out a lot of the perishables. 

Shut up, alone, with danger at the door and nothing to eat but non-perishables and a few jars with hadwritten labels reading "cashew paste" and some condiments in the fridge...it was a bit too familiar for Martin. At least it wasn't a familiar place. How rediculious would it be to be panicking over memories of a time when things were still more-or-less sane?

Martin left the kitchen empty-handed. Back in the living room, he was drawn to the bookshelves. He drew his fingertips across the spines at eye-level. The books weren't very well organized. A few biographies, an atlas, even a guide for a somewhat obscure tabletop game system all shared a single shelf. Martin studied the titles and authors names, trying to find some sort of system they'd been sorted by. There was no way Jon sorted his books randomly. 

Then the shelf wobbled. 

Martin could have jumped left. Or right, though that direction he might have collided with the wall. He might even have made it out of the way if he'd scrambled straight back. His reflex wasn't to jump. Reflexes are a funny thing, how they can be trained. Programed into your wiring so you don't have to think or try or...even decide to do something that you've done maybe half a dozen times before if given the right stimuli. In the case of a slight wobble turing into the bookcase suddenly tipping forward directly at them, Martins reflex wasn't to jump at all. 

A cord sort of distant logic settled on his mind and blunted the spike of terror he hadn't even totally felt. He'd done something else, but he wasn't sure what at first. His chest ached as his heart slammed with adrenaline there was no longer a need for. Everything was fine. 

He was alone. 

Martin hadn't meant to just...hop into Forsaken. Hadn't meant to look at this...strangely hallow echo of Jons flat. He couldn't pinpoint what was different about it though, he just knew. The fact that the bookshelf was standing, perfectly balanced, was definitely a clue. The End was a powerful dimension of the fears that had come to inhabit the world. Even a whisper of it could cause rash decisions; or just trigger awful reflexes. 

Martin took a breath, tring to work up the will to fight the part of him that was saying maybe it wasn't so awful. The part of him that sounded a lot like...

"There you are!" ...him. Martin's heart tried to stop and speed up at the same time and he nearly vomited. "I hoped that would work!" 

"Peter!" Martin gasped, then, nearly shouting "You could have killed me!" 

"And that would have been a shame." Peter acknowledged. "It...also might have worked but..." he reached out suddenly, entirely unexpectedly, and took both of Martins hands, one in each of his. "I'm very glad you came here instead." 

Peter's hands were warmer than they'd ever been when he was alive. Martin tried to muster up some surprise that the man was a walking spit in the face to everything he knew about ghosts. Assuming, of course, that he was a ghost. "How are you..." Martin started. 

"Here?" Peter interrupted. "I followed you," Peter squeezed Martin's hands. "I knew - I always knew. I believed in you from the start, Martin. That much was never a lie." 

It was a stupid and sappy thing to say, and it sat somehow wrong in Martin's mind. He pulled his hands away, hard. Peter dropped his to his side as Martin harsly demanded "What do you want, Peter?" 

Peter blinked. "I thought it was rather clear." He paused, meeting Martin's blank, prompting gaze. "I know you got my message on the mirror," he pressed. 

Familiar frustration filled Martin like a sip of too-hot soup. "London Eye," he repeated the message. "You want - what, you want me to go to the London Eye?" Martin couldn't hide his incogruility. "You...do realize we're about six miles from there and most of that is...is...hostile territory at best?" 

"Well now that you're here, you don't have to worry about that!" Peter responded cheerfully. "We can go directly there. That's how our particular manifestation of Forsaken works." 

"I remember how it works, Peter." Martin snapped. 

Peter sucked in a breath. "You still don't appreciate it," he almost sighed the words. "An exact overlay of the world, but with no one and nothing in it." Martin just kept a blank stare on his face. It was easy here, to let himself go something just sort of passive. To let the anger bubble up and drain out and drain and drain until it reached a flow as still and steady as a river and he needed nothing else. Looking at Peter while he stood here gave him that much to give back. Then, suddenly, Peter was reaching for his hand again. Martin was starting to pull away when Peter startled him.

"I've missed you," 

"I've missed you too," The words were out of his mouth before Martin could stop them, or even think about them. Peter looked so pleased that Martin couldn't bear to dwell on the subject. Not when he wasn't even sure how true his words were. He pulled back from the thought, from the steady stream of silent rage it had broken through uninvited. "Why do you want me to go to the London Eye? What's at the London Eye?" he demanded. 

"Mmm, you mean who." Peter corrected cheerfully, still holding Martins hand. 

"Who?" Martin echoed. Then, more meaningfully "Who?" and, at Peter's look, he made the obvious guess. "Not Simon Fairchild." 

Peter nodded. "Simon Fairchild," he confirmed, smiling widly. 

"Why?!" Martin demanded. 

"Martin" Peter's voice was suddenly different, and his burning hold on Martin's hand was suddenly painful, a searing vice grip. Martin shouted and tried to pull away but Peter held tightly. "Stop. Please stop demanding answers," 

The pain eased, but not before the surprisingly clear memory of a splatter of gore splashing suddenly out from where Peter's head had been and his body slumping suddenly into the fog below. Martin deflated a bit and nodded. "Yeah, okay," he agreed softly. He shook his head then. "I can't go if I don't know why though, Peter. I'm sorry. It's as much who I am as not...giving straight answers or...being known, I suppose, Is who you are." 

Martin wasn't sure what was happeing for an instant. It took too long for him to connect the way he suddenly lost his balance with the hard pull on the hand Peter was holding too hard. He tried to step into his fall and found his movement blocked by a solid impact with something at once hard and soft and it took him far too long to realize was a body. Peter's body. Far too long in this case was a fraction of a second but it was long enough for Peter to get his opposite arm around Martin's waist and step in, anchoring him. Pressing against him. 

Martin opened his mouth to object but Peter was closing in. Face, Beard, Eyes. Peter's Eyes were open and Martin wasn't sure why that felt wrong. It wasn't like he'd seen Peter with his eyes closed all that often. It just didn't seem right to be this close to them. Or maybe it just didn't seem right to feel something from them. Martin had always thought that Peter's eyes were cold. The icy shade of his blue irises had always seemed approprate in the poets corner of Martins mind. So when Martin was pulled in like that, and stopped secure he expected to crash. To be met with the hard wall he'd always seen behind Peter's eyes. 

Instead he felt for an instant like he was drowning. 

He didn't get a chance to catch his breath because an instant later his mouth was covered. Distantly, Martin wondered how Peter's lips were so chapped when they'd looked soft a moment ago. Echos diverged off that thought and he wondered first how someone who was dead could have chapped lips at all - and when the hell he'd thought Peters lips looked soft. 

He had time for none of those thoughts because an instant later he was swept up in the kiss and returning it, hands sliding between their chests to grip at the older mans lapels. He couldn't think, he didn't want to think. He didn't want to _feel_. Not this. Peter's embrace, his breath, his kiss, were too hot. Martin wanted to pull away but he clung harder in confusion. 

Then Peter pulled away.

It'd be a lie to say that Martin had never entertained the fantasy of kissing Peter Lukas. Of course, those fantasies had almost exclusively been early on in their association and almost entirely out of irriation. There were few ways to make someone with a beard and jawline like that shut up quite as satisfying as kissing them senseless, he liked to imagine. The fantasies had rapidly devolved into punching him in the face instead. 

If only he'd known. 

"What the hell?!" Martin demanded. 

"I wasn't lying you know," was Peter's sorry excuse for an answer. Stated plainly, as if that should tell Martin everything he needed to know. 

"About what?" Martin's mind was well and fogged. Standing in Forsaken alone would do that to you, never mind standing there being snogged by a dead man. 

"About you," Peter aswered. He stepped closer yet. "I admired you the moment I saw you, Martin. The loneliness that rolled off you in waves was enticing of course but that's nothing," he pulled Martin in even closer, resting their foreheads together and Martin could all but hear his heart racing. "You have tenacity, and courage, and balance. You're cold but warm and soft but strong. The only thing I underestimated about you was your ability to believe in yourself. I kept my arrangement with Elias secret from you, but I never lied about you being a hero, Martin." 

Martin scowled. What was this? He pulled back hard, or tried to. Peter held onto him and Martin struggled as he demaded "What does this have to do with Simon Fairchild?" he snapped. He wanted to argue the point. He was no hero, he was starting to think there was no such thing anyway. There was no such thing anyway. Peter pulled him in again and Martin relaxed in his arms. 

"You can convince him to join us," Peter answered, running a thumb over Martin's cheekbone. 

"Join you?" Martin echoed. 

Peter nodded solemnly, and pulled away suddenly. So suddenly it was like a shock to Martin's system. He wondered if that was the point. Peter's voice sounded suddenly like it was coming from the other end of a tunel, even though Martin could still see him standing there. "Some of us..." he started slowly, carefully. Too careful, Martin couldn't help but think. "Selesa, Michael Crew, even Gertrude. The Dead In the Know, as it were. Those of us who aren't happy that The End is on the move, or with some other result of Elias' efforts. We're trying to recruit living avatars. People with the power to help us reverse what's been done." 

Martin just stared at Peter. "You're trying to tell me I can save the world again." he deadpanned, in total disbelief. 

Just as suddenly as Peter had moved away, Martins hand was in his. "Yes." Peter hissed. He squeezed Martin's hand hard. "My admiration for you. My..." He cut off, and Martin noticed that Peter's hands were shaking. "I thought you would be happy in the panopticon, Martin. I told Simon about you and he thought I was...overstating it. Then he met you and..." And suddeny Peter was right there again. 

Then suddenly Peter was kissing him again. 

It was wrong. A blasphemy that Peter, a lifelong avatar of The Lonely, was initiating a kiss here, in the heart of Forsaken. A kiss and another and Martin melted into the heat of them like so much ice. Peter did too, he could feel it, whining like the touch burned him. It probably did, and that only made Martin viscously grab him closer. Pinning their bodies together. Clutching him tight. To punish him, he told himself.

To never let him go again, he knew. 

But even in The Lonely, one has to breathe, and Martin pulled back again. He sucked in a breath, and Peter did the same. Martin could feel the cold air sucked past him blown back hot from Peter's lips and it was intoxicating enough he nearly leaned back for another. Peter's eyes were half-lidded and accepting and Martin allowed himself a cruel sort of edge as he spoke instead, an echo of where they were. "...and?" 

Peter blinked. It seemed to take him a moment to find where they were. Then he lifted his hands and touched both sides of Martins face. "All he saw was this. He didn't notice anything else about you." 

"Who?" Martin asked.

Peter chuckled and dropped his hands to his sides. "Martin, I'm flattered, but try to keep up." 

Martin blinked. He didn't let go of Peter, didn't pull away. He pulled Peter closer instead. Rested his head on his shoulder. It burned without burning. A painful tingling that followed everywhere his body touched Peters and was the more intense where Peter's skin touched his. Almost searing where Peter's hands came up to rest on his back, like the start of a sunburn. "Right," he said softly. "Simon Fairchild." 

"Only noticed that you're gorgeous, yes."

"That I'm what?" Martin pulled away with his startled question, pushing Peter's hands off of him. Peter sucked in a sharp breath when Martin pulled back. Martin blinked and realized the fog in his vision was caused by unshed tears. He swallowed and did his best to blink them away, barley refraining from wiping his eyes. 

He looked just in time to see Peter roll his eyes. "Honestly, are you going to get defensive every time I complement you?" he huffed, then added "Yes. Simon noticed you primarily for your body. Don't argue with me, I could have worshiped your soul if you'd gone through with my plans but Simon wants you...differently." 

"Worshiped my soul" Martin echoed, tone exuding irony. 

Peter nodded and reached for him again. Martin moved toward him and felt himself sinking into a paradox. Peter embodied everything about this place, but Martin's instincts drove him into the older mans arms to escape the crushing loneliness crashing down on him. He really didn't belong here the way Peter did, and behind held by him helped nothing. 

"So, what?" Martin demanded softly, his own arms wrapping unconsciously around the older man. "I'm just...suppose to seduce him into helping you? That's something to ask someone you just confessed to." 

"That's the best part!" Peter enthused, and Martin pulled back just enough to look at him. Peter's hands still felt as though they were burning Martin's bare back. Peter's smile was wide, and unpleasant. "No seduction necessary! It's all already been arranged. All you have to do is go to him." 

Martin felt like he'd been punched in the gut. 

He wanted to push Peter away. He hugged him harder instead, as if he could squeeze the life out of him. Peter seemed unfazed, resting his head against Martin's shoulder. Martin's stomach rolled as Peter made a little noise that seemed nothing but content and even outright pleased with himself. There was a certain horror to this conversation that fit too well what the world had become. It fit here, in Forsaken, as the place threatened to engulf him again. This place that he was sure he could always escape to again. "Alright" he said finally. "That. Of course it's that." 

Peter pulled back again, smile fading. "You don't think I'm happy about this, do you?" 

"It seems like something you'd do." Martin muttered darkly. 

Peter put his hand on Martin's cheek. "Martin..." he started. 

"Don't" Martin snapped, pushing Peter's hand off of him and pulling away again. He almost didn't let go of him entirely. It took an extra breath, and a heavy sigh to convince himself to let go. His breathing cleared almost in an instant, the sobs trying to block his throat coming loose as Peter became just another person he was isolated from. Someone maybe he was isolating in turn. He'd never felt farther from the other man in his life. "Just..." he started. Then, looking at him again, taking in the way his sad expression was tinged with hunger, and a dark glee, Martin shook his head. "Just take me to Simon." 


	2. Sky

Martin had plenty of time to curse Peter for leaving him so far away from the iconic tourist destination. Each step felt like it covered a fraction of the distance it ought to have, so he also had plenty of time to curse himself for trusting Peter again. For letting Peter manipulate his need to be wanted and sed him into _this_ looking debauched. Kiss-swollen with mussed hair and clothes. Martin had to fight down a spike of fear over what Simon would do to him if he got jealous. 

Even after all that, Martin had the time to wonder if it was the time, space, or both that seemed so much bigger than it was. Or had the Vast genuinely warped the area around Jubilee Park and not just human perception of it? Maybe Simon would allow him questions. Maybe questions just invited Beholding. Martins' mind was swimming and his legs were sore by the time he reached the slowly turning wheel. 

Simon was at the other end of the car, near the observation rail, leaning very slightly on his cane and staring into the inner working of the machine. As the car came level with the ground, Martin took one more step, and Simon turned to him as his stomach dropped with the sensation of lifting. 

"You came!" Simon declared, delighted. 

Martin scowled at him. "Didn't have much choice, did I?" he snapped. 

If it were possible, Simon's smile grew wider. "Now don't be like that. I'm not a rapist. I gave my terms." He looked at Martin. Martin was keenly aware of his state of undress and reflexivly fiddled with the knot on his towel. The way Simon seemed to be trying to soak in his body with his gaze ought to be more uncomfortable than he as finding it. "From the look of it," Simon continued "you accepted, yes?" 

It was unfortunately, uncomfortably true. "I guess you have what you always wanted. No..." Martin paused, as if he were seeking the right word even though it was already on the tip of his tongue. "...intrinsic motivation to fight?" 

Simon tsk'd at him. "Everyone always so bent on saving the world." he complained. Then "Honestly, as time goes on I'm finding this world a bit...crowded for my tastes. Come see." he gestured Martin toward the railing and turned back around. 

Martin scoffed, though the noise was almost entirely covered by the clicking of the car gate behind him. A claustrophobic feeling gripped him, and for a moment he clung to it. Small spaces had to be safer this close to an avatar of the vast; however bad they felt. "No thanks." He answered, with a dry sort of finality. 

"Suit yourself." Simon responded with a shrug. "You're missing out on some quality horror, but I suppose you'd rather get right to business." He turned to face Martin as he spoke, and in the same movement was unbuttoning his trousers. 

"Is that another gift from your patron?" Martin quipped. The dick Simon had pulled through his open fly was impressive to say the least. He'd seen dicks with that girth before; mostly in porn. Once in person, Adam or Andrew or...Ethan? Martin made it a point to forget his grinder hookups names once he'd deleted them from his contacts. The last thing he needed was to get attached to the memory of someone who likely never wanted to see him again. Regardless of name, the last penis he'd seen that wide had most certainly not been that long. Not even competitive. In fact, Simon was a bit disproportionate in terms of length. By inches it probably wasn't so bad but he wasn't exactly a tall man so it looked... "Because it really borders on the absurd." 

Simon huffed in annoyance. "I think you'll find it remarkably effective." he stated, tone going a familiar sort of pretentious. Martin snorted, wondering if he should comment that pretentiousness didn't suit a man who had his dick out. He had just enough time to notice the color rise in Simons face before the vertigo hit. "And if you insist on poking fun, maybe we should start you choking on it." The malice also rose in his voice as he spoke, and Martin reached out for something, anything, to steady himself. He found nothing and was soon on his knees. 

Simons cock was intimidating up close. It'd been a mistake to antagonize him. He was here for saving the world reasons, not because of any genuine force. All the same, he found himself forcing the words "Alright, it doesn't just look big because you're short." out through his disoriention. He'd swear the noise Simon made as the old mans fingers combed into Martin's hair was one of amusement. Then Simon caught hold and pulled his head back a little by the hair, just enough to send a sharp pain down through his skull and force the head of his erection to Martins lips. 

Martin opened his mouth, as much a reaction to the pain as in obedience. A moment later the reddened tip of Simons cock pushed past his lips and, without warning, directly to the back of his throat. Martin gagged, eyes watering as Simon made an inhuman sounding moan. Simon wasn't exactly thrusting so much as just moving. Little jumps and pushes of a cock that size all the way back against his tonsils may as well be earthquakes. 

Martin reached up and caught hold of Simons hips in an attempt to keep him still. For some reason Simon moaned again. Martin couldn't tell if he was imagining the strange reverberation to it that made it sound like nothing a normal throat could do. Would Simon sound normal to him if he didn't know what the man was? 

Simons' other hand covered his and Martin focused on the cock in his mouth, trying to suck without choking. It was impossible and it wasn't long until it was suffocating. Simon seemed to be enjoying the gagging though. And the drool. The hand in Martins' hair had gone from pulling to petting, stroking his curls almost gently with just a little bit of a tug before he'd bury his fingers in them again. Simons hand over Martins on his hip was curled down around the sides too; almost like he was trying to hold it. 

Martin would really rather he not do that. 

When Simon used the hold on his hand and head to pull back a little, just to finally properly thrust back in Martin honestly thought for an instant something had ruptured. He was pretty sure it hadn't. With a mere moments thought he remembered Simon wouldn't want to _damage_ him so soon. Keeping that in mind was all that kept him from pushing Simon off of him as hard as he could and scrambling away.

Instead he just cried out in pain and tears started running down his face. Simon made a gleeful sound and Martins certainty that Simon wanted him intact faded a little. Simon continued for what probably wasn't an eternity. When he finally let go and pulled away, erection audibly popping out of Martins mouth, Martin forced himself to swallow and breathe and try to still his trembling.

"There now." Simon remarked over what had turned into Martin coughing and gagging without obstruction. "Much as you've been a lovely conversation partner it's best not to let you Beholding types talk too much." 

He tried to object, to push out even the single word "What?" but the pain from even that much hurt significantly more than it was worth. Martin brought his hand to his throat and sat down hard, focusing his attention on breathing. 

Simon nodded eagerly. "There it is." he said. "I don't want to gag you, but I'd rather we only bother talking if it's important." And with that, Simon was on eye level with him and pushing him onto his back. Martin made no effort to resist, he didn't even have time to try. He was suddenly lying naked on his back on the floor of the car. For a moment he wondered that he hadn't cracked his skull on the bench in the center but Simon may have been careful about that. The fact that he wasn't sure made a sob try to rise up in his still sore throat. Martin swallowed it down as he looked up at the old man. He wondered if the avatar could sense his fear, given that it had nothing to do with heights or space or human insignificance. 

The way Simon leered down at him suggested he could, or else that he was just enjoying the power he had right then. Martin wasn't sure what he was expecting to happen next but Simon settling in between his legs and running his hands from his ankles up and feeling over his knees, kneeding at his calves then thighs was not it. Simon worked at the muscles in Martins legs with a strength Martin had not expected him to possess. Knots and tension built up over a lifetime of walking between public transport stops and, more recetly, the seemingly endless trip all the way from Scotland, melted away. It felt amazing. Martin couldn't even bring himself to feel guilty for the moan that escaped him at what he tried to pursuade himself was utterly non-sexual pleasure. 

It was a lot harder to convince himself the pleasure was non-sexual when Simon was working on his inner thighs. Digging under the cellulite and layers of stubborn fat required brusing force that Martin had no idea where Simon got the strength for. Or rather, he had an idea and didn't want to think about it. All he wanted to think about was the pressure making its way all the way to his musculuture and making his legs go weak. He didn't want to think about how as the rest of his body relaxed, his own cock was beginning to grow stiff. Not a total erection, but definitely not entirely flacid anymore either. 

Simon made an appreciative noise as he worked and Martin's eyes snapped open. He hadn't even realized he'd closed them. Simon's grin had started looking less like a leer and more like... Martin didn't know what to think about it. It wasn't malicious. Just hungry. It reminded him of Jon, except Jon had never looked at him like that. That was how Jon looked at interesting things. Things he didn't understand. What was going on in Simon's head? Martin opened his mouth to ask but his throat flared with pain. He just whined. 

Simon moved his hands up and into the folds where Martins stomach rested over the joints between his hips and pelvis and Martin tried to make a noise of protest. It wasn't that it felt particularly invasive, it was that - well. No. Why would he want Simon to find him desirable? Let the old man poke around at his body's gross parts, maybe he'd re-think this whole thing and - No, Wait. Didn't the fate of the world rest on Simon wanting him like this?

Martin had two, maybe three seconds to spiral. Panic welled up and then drained when Simon's thumbs pressed hard against the arteries of his inner thighs and dragged along them. It didn't feel particularly good but it was...yes, it was invasive. In a surface-level sort of way. It should be nothing compared to a cock in his mouth but somehow it was more. Martin closed his eyes again. 

He could pretend it wasn't Simon. Maybe he could pretend it was Jon. Maybe he could pretend it was Peter. Or Maybe he could pretend it was...anyone else. Someone not evil. He could pretend it was Tim. Or an actual stranger. Someone who had never hated him, never threatened or resented him. Someone whose touch actually came with the affection the deep pressure promised. It was a lot hotter that way, when he pretended. Eyes closed, the massaging over his inner thighs and then in over his pelvis was something almost magical. 

Martin was brought back to reality when he moaned and another flash of pain shot through him. He winced and brought a hand to his own throat and his eyes snapped open again. When he looked up it was still Simon leaning over him. Still looking at him like he was something to be devoured. It was all he could do not to cry. Simon's smile grew and he reached out to curl his gnarled hand around Martin's cock. "Mmmmm," he commented. "Is this why you teased me so badly about proportions? I'd hoped you being such a big boy was a good sign but I hadn't imagined it would be so _accurate_." 

"Shut Up." Martin croaked. 

Simon tsk'd at him and crawled over him, straddling him. Martin blinked, startled. A tear escaped his eye when he blinked, unrelated to his new emotion but unshed from moments earlier. Simon ran his fingers through the hair on Martin's chest, over his fat and ill-defined musculature. For a second Martin was afraid Simon was going to do something stupid and cliche like play with his nipples, but Simon pulled back and around and leaned on his shoulders, hovering right over his face instead. That was worse. 

"You're very appealing, you know." Simon informed him. "You look like a man who fights; but also indulges. I like that about you." 

Martin wanted to struggle. To pull away, to tell him no. He kept coming back to the thought that Simon was evil. That Simon had threatened to kill him. Where was all this coming from? His stomach twisted at the words that he didn't want to admit he'd always wanted to hear because they were coming from almost the exact wrong person. Or, no almost about it. The playful gleam in Simon's eyes had always frustrated Martin. It reminded him of the worst kind of bully, the kind that did it just for fun. Not because anything was wrong that they were taking out on you, not out of any genuine need, just for the genuine glee of it. It was infuriating. 

Not so infuriating as to kill the erection Simon had worked up from him. Martin already resented it enough, but he only resented it more when he realized what Simon was doing at this angle. How he reached back to grasp it with his face still only inches from Martins, that stupid grin gone nearly mad with delight. Then Martin felt the head of his cock brushing up against flesh that he resented himself for noting was surprisingly firm for belonging to an old man like Simon. He was still busy rationalizing it as having to do with all the jumping around the Avatar of the Vast probably did while he was stranding innocents at impossible heights when his thoughts were all but whited out by the sudden pressure of Simon lowering himself around Martin's cock. 

How did he do that? No lube, no preparation... well, he might have done that before Martin got here. Martin hadn't even seen him take off his pants the rest of the way. Probably did that while he was crawling over him and looming like a creep. Martin couldn't even continue hurling mental insults though because Simon actually felt _good_ around him. Hot and tight and kind-of perfect? Simon rested a hand on Martin's chest as if to brace himself, than curled his fingers in Martin's chest hair and then braced himself with his knuckles instead, creating a bit of a pull on Martin's chest that ached in - 

How did Simon know he liked that sort of thing? Or was it just a coincidence? Martin wasn't sure which was worse. 

None of it mattered anymore once Simon started moving. He didn't take it easy either, why would he? He went from carefully bottoming out as if measuring Martin's cock or something to riding him at full gallop and Martin was distantly distressed at how his ability to think completely vanished under the sudden wave of sensation. 

Maybe worse was how all of Simons mischief seemed to fade away in an expression of ecstasy as he moved, fucking himself on the erection he'd somehow gotten out of Martin. Martin was surprised and disgusted to realize that the sound trying to force its way out his aching throat was one of pleasure. Worse, despite the wrinkles and age marks on Simons hand and arm, this angle on seeing him support his weight while gripping Martin's chest hair and past that that absurdly enormous cock was nothing short of pornographic and despite himself, Martin found his body getting into it. His hips jerked up to match the rhythm Simon was setting and he almost unconsciously reached for Simons hips to steady them both. 

Simon laughed, and Martin clenched his teeth hard. How? How could he - 

Martin jerked arrhythmicly , trying to force himself to thrust harder than Simon was already going. It wasn't easy, and he had to grip the old man tighter than was natural to him. The worst part is how easily Simon communicated his delight without saying a word, without really even making more than the obscene sounds that Martin had been ignoring. How he adjusted to the pace and seemed unaffected by Martin's force. Or maybe the worst part was how good it felt, how even the tiniest rush of power made the sensations flooding him from his cock all the better and - 

He couldn't have warned Simon if he'd wanted to. He'd been in denial that it was about to happen so he was completely caught off-guard by his own orgasm. The cry that escaped him felt like it tore his throat on the way out and the ecstasy was squashed by the weight of restrained sobs in his chest. Simon was moaning, making no effort to not get Martin's...stuff...all up in him and Martin couldn't help but cringe. Which did a lot to help with the going soft very quickly after the orgasm was over. So of course Simon took his sweet time pulling off of him, and Martin couldn't help but whine from the overuse of his cock. 

Simon made another obscene noise of appreciation as he pulled back, cum drizzling everywhere and Martin could only close his eyes and hope this was the end of it. "...and Peter was worried I'd be disappointed by your lack of enthusiasm." Simon taunted. "Really that was..." and another moan. Martin wondered without opening his eyes if Simon was in punching range. 

Then he felt Simon's hand rest against his inner thigh, thumb resting up over Martin's pelvis. Martin had just enough time to processes what was happening when he felt Simon's fingers slip between his cheeks and lightly trace his hole, teasing it. "Really?!" Martin demanded past his exhaustion. 

"You got yours," Simon justified. "Now I want mine." 

Martin just let himself sink into the still-moving floor as much as possible. Relaxed into the motion of being carried up and over some great height. This was, after all, what he'd expected coming here. The other stuff had been a surprise and, Martin didn't want to admit, not an unpleasant one. It was time for the worst of it. Or it would be if Simon hurried up. "What are you doing?" he demanded. 

"Getting you ready," Simon answered. 

"No," Martin growled. "You're *teasing* me, stop it." 

"Well somebody's throat seems to be feeling better" Simon taunted. "Should I take care of that first?" Martin hated that the only way he could think to respond to that was to fall silent. "There's a good boy," the old man praised. 

"Shut up" Martin croaked. 

Simon's opposite hand came suddenly toward, at first Martin thought his face, he discovered a moment later it was actually his neck. Old, gnarled, but impressively strong fingers curled around his throat. The lightheadedness came in an instant and Martin let his eyes drift shut. It seemed Simon was a little too skilled to accadently murder him, which he only barley managed not to think of as unfortunate. The hand that wasn't lightly strangling him was still teasing his hole, tracing over the pucker with gradually increasing pressure but not pushing - 

Until he was, index finger breaching Martin and curling inside him in such a way that the noise Martin made was not a displeased one. He followed it with a distinctly frustrated sound, that got cut off by another pleased one as Simon managed to poke him right in the prostate. "Christ, Simon..." he managed before the old mans hand closed harder on his throat and Martin found himself both dizzy and suddenly short on air as the heal of Simons's hand dug a bit against his windpipe. 

Martin focused on breathing while Simon fingered him. One, then two, soon three... There wasn't lube and it was uncomfortable despite the shock-waves of pleasure. Martin was just starting to worry about taking Simon's stupid huge cock, which had hurt his throat so badly. He got a bit less concerned when Simon let go of him. Fingers out, hand off his throat, and Martin was able to look up in time to see Simon applying a more than generous amount of lube to his massive erection. 

Martin just closed his eyes again. Tried to ignore Simon's presence over him. Tried to ignore the hands moving around his thighs and ass. Failed to ignore the intrusion as Simon got the head of his cock up inside him. Martin cried out, and then whined from the pain in his throat as Simon leered down at him. Then Simon thrust again, pushing deeper in, and again and deeper still and all Martin could do was whine helplessly. 

Too much. The stretch was too much and with every thrust Martin was afraid he would tear. Afraid it was too much for him. Simon's hands wandered his body as he moved, clinging and crawling and Martin hated them. Hated Simon and his long fingers and gnarled knuckles and hot palms and hated the way that enormous cock kept brushing past his oversensitive prostate and sending waves of sensation through him that made him want to scream. 

It wasn't pleasure, it wasn't pain, it just was. Just feeling. Martin didn't grab Simon, didn't want to give him the satisfaction. The floor was smooth though. He managed to find his towel with one hand and grip that. His other hand had nothing, just flexing completely independently of the pace of Simon's rough thrusts. It was overwhelming, which Martin realized was probably the point. Once he could accept that, then he could relax and... 

It actually started to feel good? 

Not work him up toward another orgasm good but definitely a lot more like porn had implied getting fucked by a dick like that would feel. Just a feeling to get lost in. He almost wished it would hurt, that Simon would rip him open and damage him and make the discomfort worth something. He didn't, he just made pleased little noises that weren't quite moans but were just as obscene. Martin wanted to use his free hand to hit him, or strangle him, or something equally or more violent. 

Martin wasn't sure what restrained him. Maybe just time, and it only felt like Simon went forever when it fact he was quick. Maybe it was that some part of him actually managed to hold onto why he was here. He tried not to think about the possibility that he was just enjoying this on some level. Tried to pretend that wasn't the most likely answer. Whatever the reason, the small eternity ended abruptly. Martin felt a gaping absence of sorts when Simon pulled out of him and whined, more miserable than he had been only the instant before. 

Then Simon started spurting hot cum all over Martin's pelvis and belly. Martin made a noise of indignant protest and Simon just laughed. He _laughed_. Martin wondered where he found the dignity to be offended. "Really?" he objected, throat still raw and his voice sounded it. 

"I'm sorry, would you rather I had cum on your face?" Simon asked, condescendingly. "Or, perhaps inside you? Don't worry, we've time for all of that," Simon sprang uncomfortably nimbly to his feet and began to get dressed again. Martin just groaned, allowing himself a moment to just...lie there. Of course he couldn't have that, and he was aware of the movement of the car, the gentle rise and cresting turn. They were right at the very top of the London Eye, and from the floor, Martin was all too aware of the moment when the movement stopped. 

The very moment after that, Simon was fully dressed again. The only sign of the treatment he'd just given Martin was that there was a bit more color in his cheeks than usual. Martin groaned and pulled himself up a little on the bench in the center of the car, not even to sitting all the way up just a bit of a lean. "What are you talking about?" 

Simon laughed again. "You didn't think I'd trade my little piece of The End of The World for one little afternoon with you, did I?" Then, his hand on the railing for a moment and the next he'd lifted himself up and over and was gone. 

Martin was alone, naked, covered in cum and trying desperately to feel hope for the world against his personal hopelessness - at the top of the London Eye. 


End file.
